Friends, Girlfriends, Roommates, & Other F**ckwads
by Lone Gunwoman of the Week
Summary: A "Ghost World" story. Enid's ruminations while spending the night with Seymour.


Title: Friends, Girlfriends, Roommates, & Other Fuckwads  
Author: Rebecca Perlow  
Rating: R for repeated profanity.  
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Enid's ruminations while   
spending the night with Seymour.  
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Becky, Enid's dad, Maxine, Dana  
none of them are mine. They all belong to Daniel Clowes and   
Terry Zwigoff.   
  
Author's Note: My name is Rebecca and I saw "Ghost World" in  
the theater six times. Like Enid, I'm 18 years old and   
graduated from high school last Spring. My first summer after  
graduation included my father's heart attack two days after  
the ceremony, my mother walking out on us a month later, the  
purchasing of my first car, my first car accident, my first  
turn table, my first record, and, later, flunking out of my   
first semester of college. I had no choice but to love this   
movie, and I hope this story does it justice.  
  
************************************************************  
  
When I promised Seymour he'd be up to his neck in pussy by   
the end of the summer, I didn't think it'd be mine.  
  
Not to say the idea hasn't ever crossed my mind, and I know  
it crossed Seymour's more than once. But it was always in   
theory. The big 'What if..' What if horse shit sat on pin  
heads? What if clouds were made of opium? What if Seymour  
and I slept together?  
  
It was a hypothesis made impossible by a 20 plus years age  
difference and a mutual clumsiness in the ways of romance.  
But, looking back on it, niether of those things were ever  
a substantial deterrent. Over the course of our sometimes  
awkward, sometimes surprising, always unique friendship, we   
managed to sidestep our conjoined baggage leftover from   
previous less-than-successful encounters with the opposite   
sex and forge something that was..I don't know, rare. And   
kinda cool.   
  
And the age difference always seemed to be someone else's   
problem rather than mine or Seymour's. The looks we got from   
people when we went out were interesting. I know Becky was   
especially repulsed, and I can imagine what Dana had to say   
on the subject.  
  
'She just doesn't understand how I would know someone like  
you. Someone so young.'  
  
A thirty year old 'striking blond' feeling threatened for  
the affections of a forty year old 'bookish' record collector   
by Jewish, green-haired, little old me. What a riot. I wonder   
what she would have said about our little field trip to   
Anthony's.  
  
Back then, the idea of sex with Seymour wasn't even in   
theory. Sex with anyone wasn't even in theory. And yet, when   
I think about it, it was always in the realm of possibility.   
And now, with Seymour's scratchy afghan wrapped around me,   
and a naked Seymour wrapped around it, I'm uncomfortably   
aware of the fact that possibility seems to have crash-landed   
into reality.  
  
And to complicate matters even further, he wasn't bad.   
Seymour may not have had a girlfriend in over four years, but   
he definetly remembers the particulars of that part of the   
equation. I mean, I won't have any problems walking home in   
the morning but, still, it was nice. It was nice.  
  
So how come I feel like complete and utter crap?  
  
Maybe it's because he's still technically dating Dana. Dana   
of the personals, famed in song and wet dream. In a way, I   
have her to thank for meeting Seymour. If he hadn't been so   
inspired by her heavenly presence, he wouldn't have placed   
that ad, thus never inspiring me to play that prank, thus   
never inspiring me to follow him home, thus never inspiring   
me to buy his record, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda in   
short, I have Dana to thank for meeting Seymour.   
  
But I won't.  
  
I wonder if he's slept with her yet. Two months for most   
adults would be more than enough time but, somehow, I just   
don't see it. Maybe if Dana wasn't a Clairol-streaked, stone-  
washed, boergouis princess, antiquing fuckwad, I could. Plus   
knowing Seymour knowing me, I think he would have thought   
twice about poking his pecker inside me if it was covered   
with Dana cooties. He knows I would have had something to   
say about that.  
  
I wonder if he'll sleep with her after this. If he does, I   
hope my cooties give her cooties the clap. He probably won't   
though. He'll probably break up with her after this. Part of   
me will turn cartwheels over that. Actually all of me will   
turn cartwheels over that. Right down main street, right over   
the pants, and probably right into Norman, not that he'll   
notice unless I've got eight wheels and a special compartment   
to store his luggage.  
  
Adios Dana, go buy some jeans.  
  
I guess it's not guilt over Dana that's bothering me. Maybe   
it's that I've got a champagne headache that would melt   
Seymour's 78s and it's making every fart from Joe's room   
down the hall sound like a windstorm. Toward the end of my  
buzz, I see Becky glaring at me, the manager from the movie  
place telling me not to drink on the job, and my dad asking  
if I used his blue spatula to 'make the champagne bubble.'  
Actually, the word bubble sounds more like 'bahhhbell' as  
Dad has Maxine's toes in his mouth.  
  
As I begin to come out of the haze, it occurs to me I asked   
Seymour if I could move in with him. It's a fairly logical   
concept, now that we've ridden the hobby horse, and one with   
mutual benefits. I'd save him from Dana's perkiness and Joe's   
flatulence, he'd save me from my own chronic misery and the   
horrors of living with my dad and Maxine. It'd be just the   
two of us, shutting out the rest of the world, though   
occasionally peeking in on it to gather data for our largely  
negative, though often accurate commentary. It's perfect.  
  
How ironic that I would have convinced Seymour of its   
perfection right after I'd convinced myself that it looked   
better on the drawing board.  
  
I meant it when I asked him. Part of me still means it now,   
but deep down I know it's a bad idea. Like living with Becky   
was and is a bad idea. I've lived with my father for 18 years   
and nothing good's come of it, why should living with my   
friends be any different?  
  
I think, through sheer neglect, I've managed to persuade   
Becky into believing I'm completely unlivable, now I just   
have to convince Seymour. I'd be a terrible person to live   
with Seymour. See? I hog the covers. My breath smells gross   
first thing in the morning and probably tastes even worse.   
I'm ferociously needy, you may have to quit your job just   
to spend more time with me. I'm terminally untidy. All your   
rooms would look like a cyclone hit them. I thrash around in   
bed, my tits would probably smother you in your sleep. I'm a   
horrible person, Seymour. Please don't want to live with me.  
  
Somehow, I don't think he'll be so easily convinced. I'll   
have to work on my approach.  
  
It's kinda hard to stare into space when space is all dark  
and fuzzy. Where are my glasses? Clothing inventory: my dress   
is in a ball on the floor. My tights are in a twisted heap   
at the foot of the bed. But where the fuck are my glasses?   
If my alcohol-muddled recollections are correct, Seymour   
took them off, which means they're likely on the night table.   
A long reach. I hope he doesn't wake up when my nipples graze   
his chin.  
  
Much better. Seymour stirs a bit but doesn't wake up. Ohh.   
He looks so sweet when he's sleeping. Happy. I wonder if he  
always looks this way. Or is it just a sex thing? Oh well,  
he looks happy. His hair is sticking up slightly in the   
back. It isn't as oily as it looks, and, true enough,  
it's rather soft to the touch. It feels warm against my face,  
nice.  
  
Again with the 'nice.' Again with the 'so, why do I feel like   
crap?' It's becoming a vicious cycle.  
  
Maybe because Seymour's one of my closest friends and, with   
Josh talking to me even less than before, and Becky ditching  
me in favor of checkered curtains and plastic cups, quite   
possibly my only friend. And by sleeping with my only friend,  
I've started something I can't finish.  
  
So now I find myself asking the age old question most people  
between shit and a shingle have been asking themselves since  
the beginning of time: what am I going to do now?  
  
The answer is fall back asleep, and hope that the answer comes   
to me in a dream. Or maybe a hangover.  
  
Fuck. 


End file.
